


Rock Bottom

by 3littleowls



Series: When He Thinks No One Can See [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Big Brother Mycroft, Developing Friendship, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Overdosing, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/pseuds/3littleowls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock closes his eyes. Oh stop. Just let it stop for a little while, please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock Bottom

Detective Inspector Lestrade picks his way through the abandoned house. A squatter lies in a tangle of bloody limbs, broken beyond recognition on a floor below. They need to sweep the whole house, make sure no one else is in hiding in the dilapidated structure. Greg is careful where he puts his feet. He’s not even sure of the floorboards will hold his weight in some places.

“We've got another one,” calls the detective in front of him. Greg peers around the door of a toilet, and sees a man lying on the ground, a pool of blood around his head like a halo.

“Shit.” Greg steps around and feels at a slim, pale wrist. To his surprise, a pulse still beats, fluttering and faint. “Call the medics up here now! Tell them to watch their steps, too!”

####

Sherlock comes to from the jostling of the backboard as the medics carry him down the stairs. He moans quietly. Someone asks him something but he doesn't quite catch it before unconsciousness claims him again. He is brought back around a few minutes later to a bright penlight shining in his eyes. 

“Sir?” The medic asks him “What’s your name?”

Sherlock tries to turn his head away from the medic’s light, but a neck brace holds him fast. He is outside now, waiting to be loaded into the back of the ambulance.

“Okay, lift on three. One, two..” The backboard is shifted and he is placed on a gurney. As he is being manipulated, he catches a glimpse of a tangled body next to him. A bodybag is being arranged around the mangled corpse.

“Wait,” Sherlock croaks, his voice harsh. It’s been unused for days. “The dead man...limbs ritually dislocated...serial murderer.” He is dimly aware that his chest hurts somewhere deep inside when he tries to move.

“Take it easy and stay still. We’ll have the D.I. talk to you later. What’s your name? Can you tell me what drugs you have taken?”

Sherlock feels the sting of an IV enter his right arm. Excellent choice. His veins are still good there. His head feels like it’s been packed in wool and his thoughts refuse to stay in order. There is something important he needs to tell someone, but he can’t remember it now. It slips away from him and gets lost in his stream of consciousness.

“...we found his wallet.”

“Sherlock? Is that your name?”

He moans in reply. He’s starting to fade out again, and he welcomes the oblivion.

####

He wakes for the third time in A&E. The neck brace is gone, and he can move his head. The pain has subsided to dullness and he deduces they have given him something for it. His right arm is strapped to the bed and this momentarily concerns him, until he realizes he’s not being fully restrained. His left arm is free, so it’s just a precaution to keep him from accidentally dislodging the tubes and wires that feed into him. He reaches up and feels around his skull. Part of his head has been shaved and covered by a thick bandage. Something tugs the skin inside the ditch of his arm, which he identifies as a dressing over his track marks.

“Hey, you're awake,” says a cheerful male voice. Sherlock carefully turns his head and takes in a detective in his late thirties. His hair is marked with gray. He has a wedding band on his left hand, but he can tell by his clothes that his marriage is not doing well. They are rumpled and haven't been ironed, so there is either no one at home, or his wife simply doesn’t care to fuss over his appearance. He has bags under his eyes. Stress from work? No, fight with his spouse. His posture also tells the tale, shoulders slightly slumped and...

Sherlock closes his eyes. Oh stop. Just let it stop for a little while, please.

“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade. You started to go into arrhythmia, then hit your head on the sink. Your family has been called and are on their way. We’ll get a caseworker to come in too. They can get you some help. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Sherlock snorts in disagreement. Damn it. Mycroft will be here any moment, gloating.

“Yeah, well. The medic who brought you in thought you may know something about the bloke who was murdered. Do you feel up to giving a statement?”

He suddenly remembers the twisted corpse. “You are going to ask me if I know him or if I heard anything. I do not and did not. I can tell you his limbs were dislocated using some sort of a device. I would guess a Medieval knee splitter or some such implement, but I would need a closer look at the body to determine for sure. Due to the non-traditional weapon and thoroughness to break all of his joints you are looking at someone who has a fetish, someone who would have taken his time. Yes, a ‘him’. Statistically a male of course. Most serial murderers are. He will be unable to keep himself from striking again, so I suggest you leave.me.alone. You are obviously on a murder investigation, so a posh idiot overdosing is nothing to you. I suggest you get back to your work.”

Greg blinks at him. “What...? How...?”

“I am sure the doctors have told you I was in no state to be considered a suspect. I simply observe. I see everything. All.of.the.time.” Frustration boils over, and he grits out. “Get out. Get out!”

Greg just stares at the young man on the bed, overwhelmed. He has turned his head away from Lestrade as much as he is able on the bed, but he can see the tension in his neck, can imagine the fever-bright green eyes squeezed shut. He feels sympathy for the poor bastard, who has obviously lost his grip on sanity.

“Okay, calm down,” he tries to reassure softly. “I’m leaving. I’ll call a doctor for you.” He doesn't seem to hear him and he pushes his way through the curtain. As he walks down the hall, a slightly paunchy man in a three-piece suit catches his eye. He is speaking to the doctor on duty, so Lestrade pauses.

“...as soon as it is practical I will make arrangements to have him transferred to a private clinic.” The man’s attention is caught, and he turns to Greg trying to wait out of earshot. The man watches him with only partial attention. It’s enough to make him feel like he has been pierced and held in place for examination, like a pinned insect. He knows in just moments, he’s been fully judged and weighed by those piercing blue eyes. He feels compelled to look down at his shoes.

The doctor turns to Greg. “Is there something I can help you with, Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yeah. The guy in bed eight is pretty agitated. Sorry about that.”

Mycroft Holmes sighs. “That would be my brother. Doctor, I will see him now. Thank you, Detective Inspector. You are done here.” He dismisses Lestrade by turning away towards the A&E cubicles.

Greg shrugs. Before he reaches the door, he hears the younger Holmes give a strangled yell that echoes down the corridors. Poor sod.

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs and kisses to my Beta gowerstreet.


End file.
